The Torch Forever Burns
by TheEmperor
Summary: A fic based on The Patriot and Benedict Arnold: A Question of Honor. Bordon loses his dear friend and mentor, John Andre. Please read, review, etc.
1. The Unlikely Dragoon

The Whist-ling Dragoon Theatrical Society presents.  
  
In Association with the author of "The Legacy".  
  
With Special Thanks to MKawaii.  
  
THE TORCH FOREVER BURNS  
  
Starring: Capt. Robert Bordon, Maj. John Andre, Lt. Col. Banastre Tarleton  
  
Co-Starring: The former Ms. Peggy Chew, The former Ms. Peggy Shippen, Gen. Cornwallis, Gen. Clinton  
  
Performance Dates: Opens Nov. 2nd, 1780  
  
Free Admission (Known Loyalists and British Soldiers Only)  
  
Authors Notes:  
  
I'm writing a Bordon fic. Before I begin, I would like to thank MKawaii for her help and inspiration. I'm proud to add to the growing collection of fics involving dear Capt. Bordon.  
  
NOTE 1: I'm going to be liberal with history throughout the course of this story. For the most part, I have tried to remain accurate concerning dates and major events. I will not put the Battle of Cowpens in July, have the British win the war, etc. I do, however, intend to kill certain persons prematurely, spare others from unfortunate deaths, and insert fictional characters into historical situations. I have done quite a bit of research for this story and I'm a big Revolutionary War history buff. If you notice any major mistakes concerning dates, battles, names, etc, feel free to inform me so that it can be corrected. However, any historical inaccuracies concerning characters, their relationships, lives, and ultimate fates are intentional. So, relax and enjoy the fic.  
  
NOTE 2: Though most of the characters in this story are taken from actual history, certain persons and events are taken from the movie, "The Patriot." I did not create these characters, nor do I claim ownership of them. All the characters and events from "The Patriot" belong to their respective owners, copyrights, etc. Please, don't sue me.  
  
NOTE 3: If you have read any of my work, you know that I rarely write anything explicitly sexual. Nothing has changed in that regard. However, if you are familiar with my work you will also know that the opposite is true for violence. If you don't want descriptions of battles, horrific injuries, 18th century medical practices, and people coughing up all sorts of nasty stuff, then I suggest you avoid certain upcoming chapters. Note also, that due to the way fanfiction.net is set up that if this story suddenly seems to disappear it is because I've moved it up to R-rating. Though I do try to keep these things PG-13.  
  
NOTE 4: I don't believe in the use of illegal drugs. filthy things. Any use of opium or any of its derivatives by the characters is purely for medicinal purposes, assassination, or because it's 1780 and they don't know better.  
  
NOTE 5: I appreciate reviews. Nice reviews, that is. A nice review means that any criticism contained within is constructive and well explained. Do not write something along the lines of: "This sucks." If you think it sucks, tell me why it sucks. I will warn you that I am an overly dramatic writer who is armed with a replica British cavalry saber and I will hunt you down.  
  
If at the close of war and strife  
  
My destiny once more  
  
Should in the varied paths of life  
  
Conduct me to this shore;  
  
  
  
Should British banners guard the land,  
  
And factions be restrained,  
  
And Clivedon's mansion peaceful stand,  
  
No more with blood be stained,  
  
  
  
Say! Wilt thou then receive again,  
  
And welcome to thy sight,  
  
The youth who bids with stifled pain  
  
His sad farewell tonight?  
  
-John Andre  
  
"It's not too late you know," Alexander Hamilton remarked pouring himself a cup of coffee from the tea pot sitting by the fire.  
  
"I would much rather die for Britain than dishonor myself," John Andre remarked not bothering to look up from the self-portrait he was sketching.  
  
"Honor is relative," Hamilton replied, sipping his coffee. "Suppose we win."  
  
"Impossible!" Andre snapped.  
  
"You must know that it pains our general to execute you," the Marquis de Lafayette said placidly. The Frenchman pulled his blue cape closer around his tall gangly frame. The few embers glowing in the fireplace did little to combat the chill of the October air. "You're young, brilliant, and if what we've heard is true no one knows more about the inner workings of the British army. Arnold was a devastating loss. You would be a more than equal gain."  
  
Finishing his sketch, Andre set his quill aside. "Strange words from a Frenchman known for his hatred of the English. a Frenchman who would defy the orders of his king to fight in a rebellion to rob his enemies of their colonies in the new world."  
  
Lafayette said nothing. Hamilton, being the more determined of the pair and the one infused with the greater degree of patriot zeal, continued.  
  
"You're a brilliant man, Major Andre. The Marquis and I have known you but a matter of days and we can already see that. Why throw it all away when a change for greater glory is placed before you?"  
  
"Greater glory!" Andre cried slamming his fist upon the desk that he upset a bottle of ink and a stack of papers. "Join you in your impossible cause and save my own life only to be remembered by my country, my friends, and my family as what Arnold is to you. a traitor!"  
  
"Your country has forsaken you, Major Andre," Hamilton explained calmly, ignoring the puddle of ink quickly spreading across a large portion of the floor. "General Washington requested to exchange you for Arnold. If you General Clinton had."  
  
"Save your words for one of the weak-minded loyalists or infantrymen who could be affected by them. I'm sure you're aware of the position I held in the king's army. Having occupied a similar position yourself, tell me, Col. Hamilton, even if I did agree to turn my back on the crown. could you ever trust me completely?"  
  
"Very well," Hamilton sighed. "Then you must turn to God for you salvation. You have reached the limits of the continental army's generosity."  
  
* * *  
  
When Robert Bordon enlisted in the British Army, for the sole purpose of putting as much distance between himself and his mother as was humanly possible, he never expected to find himself in North America. Furthermore, he never expected to find himself in the uniform of a dragoon, putting down an army of rebel colonists.  
  
The heavy saber clinked loudly against his leather boots as he entered Fort Carolina. Having served in a non-combat setting for a number of years, Bordon had forgotten how much he disliked being out in the field for days on end and trekking through swamps. His uniform, which had been bright red with dark green trim, was now a muddy shade of brown. His reddish brown hair hung in front of his eyes in dirty, greasy curls.  
  
"I will capture The Ghost, Captain Bordon!" Col. William Tavington, Bordon's superior officer, hissed.  
  
"I don't doubt that, sir," Bordon replied dutifully. Determination was among Tavington's few good qualities.  
  
"See that the men eat something and get some rest. We continue our search tomorrow morning." With that, the dragoon commander turned and started off in the direction of the tents.  
  
Bordon stood about for a minute, dazed. He was so thoroughly exhausted that he didn't dare think of the possibility of riding out again in the morning. Possessed by an almost inhuman sense of practicality, there was nothing Bordon disliked more than competition between regiments. It was the sort of thing that made an army less effective and detracted from time that could be spent putting an end to bloodshed. It was also the sort of thing that inspired Col. Tavington to force his dragoons to forgo food, water, and sleep in pursuit of their quarry.  
  
Col. Tavington was possessed of a certain determination to prove to Lord Cornwallis, the commander of the British forces in the southern colonies, how indispensable his dragoons were. It was widely believed, particularly by Tavington himself, that it was the Lord General's plan to integrate Tavington's dragoons into the much larger British Legion under the command of Banastre Tarleton. Of course, it was a well known fact that few men could hate each other so thoroughly as Tavington and Tarleton.  
  
Recently, however, luck had been in Tavington's favor. An outbreak of yellow fever had struck down a good number of British soldiers, among them Col. Tarleton and his second-in-command, former Hessian commander George Hanger. While Tarleton was recovering and Hanger still somewhere between life and death, Tavington had seized the opportunity to prove himself and his dragoons the better men. He was determined to hunt down the rebel militia leader known simple as The Ghost, and he'd gone at the task with total disregard for the happiness or well-being of his dragoons.  
  
Bordon's eyes clothes, and it is very likely he would have fallen asleep on the spot had he not been approached by one of the young errand boys employed by Lord Cornwallis.  
  
"Good day, Capt. Bordon!" the boy said cheerfully, in the tone of someone proud to be in military service but never having seen battle. "Lord Cornwallis wishes to see you."  
  
The dragoon captain blinked. This was precisely the sort of thing Bordon had not wanted. He certainly was not in the mood for Lord Cornwallis' unnecessary prying into the activities of the dragoons.  
  
"Very well. Tell his lordship that I will be up in a few minutes," Bordon sighed, before trudging off in the direction of his own tent.  
  
His mind was so occupied with thoughts of making himself presentable and ending his meeting with Cornwallis in the least amount of time possible, so that he might maximize his hours of sleep, that Bordon failed to noticed the odd looks that other officers fixed him with as he passed. Several muttered things that he did not bother to listen to. Reaching his tent, Bordon peeled off his mud-plastered uniform, splashed his face and hands with water, and ran a comb through his matted hair. This done, he put on an older uniform (more tattered but considerably less muddy). Upon examining his appearance in a small mirror Bordon thought himself to be far from perfect but presentable.  
  
Emerging from his tent, Bordon realized for the first time that something was wrong. Making his was to the great plantation house that had been converted into a command center, the dragoon observed that there were very few men walking about. Those who were did not speak, not even to greet Bordon. They simply walked past, eyes cast down, and when about their duties. A few who were higher in rank or members of the British Legion fixed Bordon with curious stares or looks of sympathy. It seemed as though a great cloud had descended over Fort Carolina. As if taking note of the mood, the sun had hidden itself behind a cloud of its own.  
  
A sense of fear began to well up in Bordon's chest and intensified as he drew closer to the house.  
  
"It's Tarleton," Bordon whispered to himself. "It must be Tarleton. Why, God, must it be Tarleton?"  
  
The Legion commander was believed to be recovering from his near fatal fever, but Bordon had heard of such cases before. In fact, something similar had occurred in a family that lived near the Bordon's back in England. The daughter, a well-known local beauty, had fallen ill with smallpox. She suffered for quite a while before the fever broke and it was believed that she would recover. The family awoke the next morning to find her dead.  
  
One of the men on guard duty opened the door of the plantation house for Bordon, whose apprehension had grown so strong that he could barely force himself to step inside. The death of Tarleton would mean that Tavington would be left as the only possible replacement Legion commander. The very thought made Bordon shiver.  
  
Lord Cornwallis' office was located on the second floor of the house, in what had once served as a ball room. Bordon approached it and knocked softly, his shaking hands preventing anything forceful. The door opened, and Bordon entered. Four pairs of eyes looked up to greet him. The dragoon nearly collapsed in relief. One of those pairs of eyes belonged to young Legionnaire Ban Tarleton.  
  
Tarleton, pale and rather too thin, was stretched across the only comfortable couch in the whole of Fort Carolina, a piece of furniture that Cornwallis guarded with the same diligence as an overprotective father does his virgin daughter of marriageable age. Despite his recent fight with death some of the old spark had returned to his brown eyes and he wore his full Legion uniform.  
  
Standing behind Lord Cornwallis' desk was General O'Hara. Upon Bordon's arrival he looked up from a report he had been studying.  
  
"Please, sit down, Capt. Bordon."  
  
There was something in the tone of O'Hara's voice that made Bordon stiffen in fear once again. He could still sense it. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.  
  
"I think I would prefer standing," Bordon managed to say.  
  
"And I think it would be safer for you to be sitting when you hear this," O'Hara replied gently.  
  
Not wishing to argue, Bordon took a seat in the one empty chair, directly in front of the desk.  
  
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Captain Bordon," O'Hara began fixing the dragoon with an empathetic stare. "Indeed, it's horrible news for us all. Captain Bordon, you served under Major Andre, in the intelligence division of the army, during the winter of '77, didn't you?"  
  
"Y-yes," Bordon stammered.  
  
O'Hara turned his eyes back to the report for a moment.  
  
"General O'Hara?"  
  
"Captain Bordon."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Captain Bordon."  
  
"Andre's dead!"  
  
They eyes in the room turned now to fix themselves upon Ban Tarleton.  
  
"He's dead, Captain Bordon."  
  
"How!" Bordon cried in an instinctive response. He wasn't sure whether he had heard the general correctly. "When?"  
  
O'Hara blinked a couple of times. "We don't know the specific details. Apparently he was negotiating the surrender of West Point with a patriot turned traitor. He was discovered behind enemy lines, out of uniform, and was arrested for spying. The colonial's conditions for his exchange were that General Clinton give up the colonial traitor. His name is. Arnold. I believe. Of course, Clinton was forced to refuse."  
  
"It's impossible!" Bordon exclaimed. "Andre could impersonate a colonial perfectly! There is no way he. no." Bordon's voice faded as he felt the combined effects of shock and exhaustion overwhelmed him. Sparks swarmed around the edge of his vision.  
  
"Are you alright, Captain Bordon?"  
  
The voice seemed to come from miles away. Bordon toppled out of his chair in a dead faint. 


	2. The Unlikely Brothers

A thousand soft thoughts in thy fancy combine,  
  
A thousand wild horrors assemble in mine.  
  
Relieve me, kind death, shut the scene from my view,  
  
And save me, oh save me, 'ere madness ensue!  
  
-John Andre  
  
Liverpool, 1783  
  
Chapter Two: The Unlikely Brothers  
  
Thomas Tarleton stifled a yawn as he rechecked his calculations. Bookkeeping, he concluded, was the most frightfully dull occupation known to man. He drummed the fingers of his left hand anxiously on the desktop and glanced at the clock sitting on the mantelpiece across the room. It was nearly four. Someone was late.  
  
"Of course, he's always late," Thomas sighed. "Always late, always drunk, always in dept."  
  
It seemed to Thomas that he could sum up his brother's personality in a long list of always-es. Just a week previous, their mother, Jane Tarleton had received yet another letter from her second son asking that she remedy the debt he had once again gotten himself into. The oldest Tarleton boy could still remember how this afternoon's little conference had been arranged.  
  
"He's impossible!" Jane cried, clutching the letter so tightly that her fingernails ripped tiny holes in the paper. "If he keeps this up we'll lose everything."  
  
"Shall I speak with him, mother?" Thomas Tarleton had inquired, looking up from the book of poetry he had recently acquired in London.  
  
Lady Tarleton sighed. "No one 'speaks' with Ban. He'll win you over with that charm of his, just like he does everyone else." She blushed. "Including me."  
  
"I guarantee, my dear mother, that I am completely unaffected by Banastre's powers of persuasion," Thomas replied coldly.  
  
"Are you quite sure, Thomas?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"I will admit that business has been booming ever since you returned from your trip to France," Jane replied. "Why, I could almost say that you are almost as good at this as your father was. What did they do to you in Paris?"  
  
Thomas' eyes widened. "Whatever do you mean, dear mother?"  
  
Jane set Ban's letter aside. "It's only that you used to be rather shy. Now, you seem rather eager to confront your brother concerning his rather extravagant spending habits."  
  
There was a light tapping at the door and a maid entered with a tray of tea and cakes.  
  
"Your tea, madam."  
  
"Thank you, Silvia."  
  
The maid curtseyed, and was gone. Jane Tarleton filled a dark blue and gold-trimmed tea cup and added milk and sugar. She held it for a while to warm her hands. The room was almost unbearably cold, despite the cheery fire in the fireplace.  
  
"Money brings out the worst in people, mother," Thomas explained. "I would sooner confront Banastre than see my mother starve and live in poverty."  
  
Jane sipped her tea and smiled. "Very chivalrous."  
  
Putting down his book, Thomas poured his own cup of tea. They sat in silence for some time, sipping their tea and thinking similar thoughts.  
  
"Is that another volume of those terrible romantic poems you seem to enjoy so much?" Lady Tarleton asked, indicating the book."  
  
"It is," Thomas smiled slyly. "And they are not terrible. They are quite good actually."  
  
Alone now in his office, waiting for his brother to arrive, Thomas checked off the last of the numbers. Perfect, the accounts were perfectly balanced as always. It was terribly ironic. He happened to be quite good at the one thing he so despised doing.  
  
The office that was at the heart of the Tarleton family trade business smelled of old papers, wood smoke, and ink. It was from this office that the now-dead James Tarleton had built his shipping empire, and amassed a fortune and a reputation that his second son was now threatening to destroy. He still watched over the office, his face coldly gazing out from the portrait above the clock on the mantelpiece. James appeared to be the cold, business-like sort, but upon closer inspection his eyes revealed some of the same nature as that of his son Banastre.  
  
"However," Thomas thought, "He must have known something of moderation." He looked down from the portrait to the clock. "And punctuality."  
  
At long last, the door to the office opened, and Banastre Tarleton entered.  
  
"Enter Tarleton, smiling foolishly as though all was right with the world," Thomas muttered to himself.  
  
"There you are!" the older brother exclaimed, pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time for dramatic effect. "Tell me, Banastre, when someone wishes to speak with you at 3:30, do you always arrive at five after four?"  
  
"Only when I'm running ahead of schedule," Ban answered quickly.  
  
"I am in no mood for witty responses today, Banastre," Thomas snapped. "I have called you here because I wish to have a serious discussion with you, dear brother."  
  
"Dear brother?" Ban laughed. "Honestly, Thomas."  
  
"I know where you've been all afternoon," Thomas remarked, looking over his brother's fashionable new outfit. "What tailor produced that monstrosity, and more importantly, how much is it going to cost?"  
  
"Still dislike the sight of anyone wearing blue?"  
  
"Whatever are you talking about? Why should I hate blue?" Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Did you get hit in the head over in the colonies, Banastre? There are times when I worry about you."  
  
"You? Worry about me?" Ban asked, eyes widening. "I think that you should be more worried about yourself."  
  
Thomas Tarleton opened a drawer in the office's large desk and pulled out a small book, which he handed to his brother.  
  
"Enough idle chatter, Banastre. I have called you here to discuss your little problem."  
  
"Problem?" the dragoon asked, dumbfounded. "What problem?"  
  
"That problem!" Thomas cried, pointing to the book. "I've been keeping records of your debts, Banastre. If you continue living as you have been, our funds will be totally exhausted by year's end. Mother will be forced into a workhouse, and you'll be locked away in debtor's prison. Which, in the end, might do you some good."  
  
"You're overreacting, as usual."  
  
"Look over the figures; you'll see that I'm not. You drink all the time, attend all sorts of extravagant parties, flirt with every woman you see, and gamble almost incessantly! Either you learn a little restraint, or I'm going to have to take some drastic action."  
  
At that, Banastre Tarleton burst into such a fit of laughter that to the causal observer it would appear that he had lost his sanity completely.  
  
"You're one to talk!" he gasped between burst of merriment. "Drastic measures? Honestly! Besides, we cannot possibly run out of money. I've heard what they're saying about you, that you're a better businessman than father ever was."  
  
Thomas Tarleton jumped to his feet. "I am being perfectly honest, Banastre! You would do good to learn some restraint. I don't need to remind you that I am the head of this family. Neither I nor mother will honor any more of your debts. Assuming you completely disregard the advice I have given you and continue living the way you have, then I will have no choice but to disown you."  
  
"Disown me!" Ban cried, mirth turning to outrage. "You can't do that!"  
  
"I can and I will," Thomas replied, regaining his composure. "Ever since you returned from the colonies you have caused me nothing but trouble."  
  
Ban smirked. "I think someone is jealous."  
  
"Hardly." 


	3. The Unlikely Replacement

Chapter Three: The Unlikely Replacement  
  
~October 2, 1780~  
  
When he assumed the position as head of British Intelligence, John Andre was well aware of the risk, chief among them was the possibility of facing a dishonorable death. Therefore, as he did with all things, he has long ago taken certain preventative measures. Fingers shaking slightly, he unscrewed the lid on his vial of poison-laced brandy. He had concocted it himself, mixing the two perfectly, enough to induce a death-like sleep but not enough to be fatal. Of course, it was not an exact science, such things never were.  
  
Andre raised the vial to his lips, knowing that therein lie death or his one chance at life. Fear washed over him, making his breath come in quick little gasps, the fear of going to sleep without knowing where you are going to awake, assuming you do.  
  
"God forgive me," he whispered, tipping back the vial and swallowing the contents.  
  
~Fort Carolina, Southern Campaign, 1780~  
  
Capt. Bordon opened his eyes and wondered why the sun was shining. It seemed unfitting that the morning should dawn so clear and bright, as though nothing had changed. The dragoon captain would have much preferred some weather more suited to the state of depression he had sunken into. The sound of a musket being fired hit Bordon like a sharp blow to the head. He reached underneath his cot and groped for the half-empty bottle of gin.  
  
"Damn," Bordon cursed, hold up the bottle and realizing that it was more fully empty than half-empty. Disappointed, he tossed it over his shoulder.  
  
There was the soft clink of the glass hitting something.  
  
Gen. O'Hara stepped inside Bordon's gloomy tent, rubbing a bump on his forehead with one hand and holding the empty bottle in the other. Bordon shaded his eyes from the morning sunlight now pouring in through the open tent flap.  
  
"Gen. O'Hara, shir," he slurred with an attempt at a salute.  
  
O'Hara frowned and set the bottle down on a small table. The drunk, unshaven man lying on the cot was not the Bordon O'Hara knew. The captain had been quickly revived following his fainting spell in Lord Cornwallis' office with the aid of a quickly fetched glass of cold water. That had been a week ago.  
  
"And how are you this morning, Capt. Bordon?" O'Hara inquired, putting on a cheerful face despite Bordon's pitiable state.  
  
"What kinda queshtion ish that?" Bordon inquired.  
  
Afterwards, the young officer had slipped into such a depressed state that it deemed the best possible course of action to give him some time himself, much to the annoyance of Col. Tavington, who had promptly declared that he had a certain "ghost" to hunt down and not even the death of the king himself was going to stand in the way. However, Tavington was obliged to do as Banastre Tarleton commanded, and Tarleton in turn was expected to obey the orders of Gen. O'Hara, though the Legion was given some degree of autonomy.  
  
"It's a question of common courtesy, Capt. Bordon," O'Hara replied, a bit disappointed at the captain's continued state of depression, which only seemed to have grown darker. "I was hoping to find you a bit less drunk this morning."  
  
Bordon snorted. He hated drinking; he hated himself for being drunk. Yet, it was the only way to forget.  
  
"Perhaps your feelings for Major Andre run deeper than I suspected."  
  
O'Hara took a deep breath, unsure of whether he wanted to continue or to allow Bordon some more time in reflective solitude. Cornwallis had given him direct orders to inform Bordon of his reassignment several days previous. He concluded that the lord general had been kept waiting long enough, and that perhaps this was the only thing that could produce any change in Bordon's mood.  
  
"I spoke at length with Col. Tarleton Monday eve," the general continued. "He was the one who gave me a bit of insight. I had no idea that you were connected to the Tarleton family. I take it that Col. Tavington remains ignorant of this? I should think he would not take kindly to finding out."  
  
Bordon blinked several times, his eyes finally adjusting to the brightness, his head still throbbing. He felt very much like telling Gen. O'Hara to refrain from prying into his personal affairs, but being a practical man, concluded that he had been rude enough for one morning.  
  
"No," Bordon cleared his throat. "No, he doesn't know. I thought it best that he didn't, even if it is only that my father was one of James Tarleton's bookkeepers."  
  
"Tarleton also tells me that," his voice and expression grew solemn, "Major Andre was the only true friend you ever had."  
  
Bordon turned away, his childhood shyness resurfacing and prickling about the sides of his face. He disliked discussing such things with his superior officers, or anyone else for that matter. "I-I was his secretary in Philadelphia," Bordon stammered.  
  
"And he was the one to recognize your potential," O'Hara explained for Bordon. "He saw that you were well-suited to intelligence work. So well- suited, in fact, that he sent you south as Lord Cornwallis' intelligence officer, a post you were denied due to that pointless feud between Lord Cornwallis and Sir Henry Clinton."  
  
There was a moment of awkward silence.  
  
"With all due respect, sir," Bordon ventured, "did you come here only to give voice to my woes?"  
  
O'Hara reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a letter, neatly folded and sealed with wax. He offered it to Bordon. "Of course not, this is for you. I thought it best that I deliver it in person. I am also to inform you that you are being sent north, to Sir Henry Clinton, as Major Andre's replacement."  
  
"Replacement?" Bordon questioned incredulously, taking the letter.  
  
"Yes, Capt. Bordon."  
  
"But, I am not a suitable replacement!" the dragoon cried, feeling a great burden descend upon his shoulders and the instinctive urge to escape it.  
  
"Perhaps," O'Hara smiled, "but it seems Major Andre thought otherwise. He hand-picked you himself."  
  
The unlikely replacement said nothing.  
  
"Good day to you, Capt. Bordon," O'Hara bowed, and was gone.  
  
It was several minutes before Bordon realized that he was holding a letter that he had been given by Gen. O'Hara. It was addressed in the elegant, even handwriting that was unique to the pen Major Andre, the sort of writing that would make a typesetter jealous. Bordon had waded through stacks of papers covered in that beautiful writing during his days in Philadelphia. He would recognize it anywhere.  
  
The seal was plain, but this was made up for by the dramatic well- flourished:  
  
Bordon  
  
Green Dragoons  
  
Middelton Place, South Carolina  
  
Sucking in a deep breath, Bordon slipped his finger under the seal. It gave way easily. He unfolded the paper gently to reveal a note written in the same graceful script.  
  
To: Robert Bordon, Captain, Green Dragoons, South Carolina  
  
Aboard the Vulture, September 20th, 1780  
  
Sir,  
  
If this letter has come into your possession then I have "made a fool of myself" for the final time. Though I cannot reveal the exact details for fear that this message might somehow be intercepted, know that against instinct and common sense I have agreed to meet with certain parties to discuss a matter which may bring a swift end to this vile conflict. However, this meeting involves a great degree of personal risk, and though I remain confident I feel compelled to make certain provision and notify certain persons should this venture be unsuccessful.  
  
In the event of my capture or death, it is my hope that you will fill the vacant position as head of Intelligence. I can think of no man more trustworthy or more thoroughly qualified.  
  
I beg of you Capt. Bordon, do not let any sorrow that you may harbor concerning my death prevent you from assuming your new position. I will not have you sitting about useless, nor will I have you trying to personally avenge my death. Victory over these colonial rebels is the only defense my honor requires.  
  
I have the honor to be, etc.  
  
John Andre, Adj. Gen.  
  
Bordon was unaware of the tear that had managed to escape from his right eye until it hit the paper as though it were a raindrop released from some kind of mysterious indoor rain cloud.  
  
Bordon stood, letting the letter fall to the floor. He reached for his jacket, practicality once again resurfacing.  
  
"Ah, good show, Bordon!" O'Hara exclaimed, reentering the tent. He looked about quickly to be certain that his head was no in danger of coming into contact with another projectile. "So, you will be going north then?"  
  
"I do as I am commanded, sir."  
  
~British Occupied Philadelphia, 1777~  
  
"Burn it all, Bordon," Andre snapped.  
  
The secretary clutched the stack of papers as though they were thin sheets of hammered gold.  
  
"Are you quite sure about this, sir?" Bordon inquired. He ruffled through the papers, reading snippets, and recalling the exact days he had filed them for future reference. Somehow, he had not expected that future reference would involve a fireplace.  
  
"Of course I'm sure, Bordon," Andre replied, slightly exasperated. "I am abandoning this office in the morning and nothing can be left behind. You've been standing there for nearly five minutes. Get on with the bloody thing!"  
  
"Sir," Bordon protested, "this is an entire winter's work."  
  
"I know that, Bordon."  
  
Major Andre's office was a small room on the upper floor of a small house on Leed's Street that had been vacated when the rebel owners had fled. It was an out of the way, gloomy sort of place, perfectly suited to intelligence work. All of various reports that had poured in from the network of agents Andre had stationed throughout the city were neatly stacked in corners, on bookshelves, and in the drawers of the room's three desks.  
  
Andre himself was seated at the main desk, separating the important documents from those that had to be done away with. Among them were several pages covered in sketches of the locals. The head of intelligence sighed, unfortunately such things were unnecessary. He set the pages of sketches neatly atop the pile of papers waiting to be burnt.  
  
"Have you developed some sort of emotional attachment to my correspondence, Bordon?" Andre demanded.  
  
"No, sir."  
  
Bordon crumpled the first page, some notes from Finnegan regarding some conversations he had overheard at the docks, into a ball and tossed it into the fire. 


	4. The Unlikely Surprise

"People have to learn sometimes not only how much the heart, but how much the head, can bear." -Maria Mitchell  
  
Chapter Four: "The Unlikely Surprise"  
  
---  
  
AUTHORS NOTES: On Chapter Four  
  
Note One: This part of the story is concerned heavily with the failed attempt by Gen. Benedict Arnold to turn over West Point to the British. For those readers unfamiliar with this event in history and those who need a bit of a refresher course, I am going to provide a quick synopsis of the events. If you are interested in more information, this is discussed in great deal in any good Benedict Arnold biography. Also, a good version of the Andre/Arnold story can be found here:   
  
Note Two: (The Surrender of West Point, The Death of Andre, and etc.) Benedict Arnold, infamous traitor to the patriot cause, had been negotiating the surrender of West Point with the British for some time. In September of 1780, Arnold demanded a personal meeting with John Andre, head of British intelligence. To make a long story short, Andre ended up being stranded behind enemy lines. He was arrested for spying. Gen. Washington offered to exchange Andre for Arnold, however, turning over someone who willingly came over to the British side was considered dishonorable. Therefore, British General Clinton was forced to decline. Andre was hung as a spy on Oct. 2nd, 1780 (according to history, not according to this story, of course!).  
  
Note Three: The characters of Major Andre's aunts are completely fictional creations.  
  
Note Four: If you are reading this story, and you haven't already, I highly recommend that you see the A&E movie "Benedict Arnold: A Question of Honor." Though it isn't the best movie ever, and I find it a bit hard to accept the guy who plays Fraiser as Washington, it does feature many of the characters who star in this particular fic and inspired this story perhaps more than "The Patriot" did.  
  
---  
  
~France, 1782~  
  
The traitor often wondered, when there was nothing else to wonder about, how Benedict Arnold lived. Had he returned to England, the lovely Mrs. Arnold, formerly Miss Shippen, still by his side? Was he an object of scorn now that the war was lost? He knew, of course, the Clinton would never trust the man completely. Clinton never trusted anyone completely.  
  
Of course, unless he had died, Arnold's acquaintance presumed that he was undoubtedly in a better situation that his own.  
  
Caroline Giradot, despite the fact that she had three very beautiful sisters, was a rather stout, ruddy-faced, woman with a decidedly sour disposition that did little to improve her appearance. Caroline scowled at her sister Elisabeth, who was whistling a cheery tune while she hung laundry on the clothesline to dry, and wondered what there was to be happy about. Slaving away over steaming tubs of filthy clothes, teaching the local children at a school set up in the parlor, only to be able to afford enough food for the eight people who lived in the decaying French country house hardly seemed worthy of whistling. Yet, Elisabeth was doing so, and as cheerfully as a songbird greeting the morning sun. Celine, the middle sister, seemed to take no notice of her older sister's foul mood or her younger sister's cheerful one. She simply continued stirring the vat of clothes and muttering things under her breath that no one could ever hope to understand.  
  
Caroline dried her wet, soapy, red hands on her ancient tattered apron.  
  
"He seems so convinced that he's going to die, why can't he just hurry up and do it!"  
  
Elisabeth immediately ceased her cheerful whistling and turned to face her sister.  
  
"Caroline, how cruel! You mustn't say such things!"  
  
Caroline plucked a sheet down from the line and began folding it neatly. She ran her tongue over her blubbery cracked lips.  
  
"I am not being cruel," the oldest Giradot sister explained. "I am merely being practical. We work like dogs and we barely eat. Besides, I would rather do away with him than with your children."  
  
Elisabeth's eyes grew wide. Unlike her two sisters, she had been part of an unusually loving marriage, and after her husband's unexpected death the three children served as her only reminder of happier times.  
  
Caroline shrugged. "If I sent them away, you would be so overcome by sorrow I fear it might render you incapable of work. Besides, they are blood."  
  
"And our dear sister Marie's son is not?"  
  
The older sister sighed heavily. She had thought that certainly Elisabeth of all people would understand the difference.  
  
"Blood or not, he is British," Caroline spat. "Your children are French. Therefore, there is a difference."  
  
"Perhaps I don't see as clearly as you, sister," Elisabeth whispered.  
  
Caroline placed the folded sheet atop a pile of similarly folded sheets and plucked the next one from the line.  
  
"Besides, the children have an excuse for not contributing to our income," Caroline grumbled. "He does not! I swear he could become quite the capable young man if only he would try. Instead all of the money that could go to providing us with a finer life is wasted on doctors from Paris!"  
  
"Caroline! That will be quite enough!" Elisabeth announced, as was only characteristic of her when she was truly annoyed. "You leave the poor dear alone. You have no idea what he has been through. Besides, if you would not talk so much we would finish with this vile work much faster."  
  
Caroline snorted and went about her work, not saying another word. Celine cackled maniacally. She always enjoyed Elisabeth's victories.  
  
The Giradot house had once stood elegantly, surrounded by gardens, not far from Paris. However, due to apathy and the loss of funds for upkeep, it now stood in exactly the same spot only in a less elegant condition. The gardens were long overgrown with weeds or picked apart by the children who attended Elisabeth's parlor grammar school. The roof leaked in the rain, the snow, and sometimes (Caroline claimed) when it was perfectly pleasant out. Several chickens ran loose about the yard, as no one cared to put the time and effort into repairing the henhouse. Elisabeth's children ran about also, often in such a wild manner that they were nearly indistinguishable from the barnyard fowl. Several windows had been broken and the others were coated in a thick layer of dust, dirt, and grime.  
  
John Andre, former head of intelligence for the British army and beloved aide to Gen. Clinton, watched his three aunts bicker from behind one of the dirty third floor windows. Andre suspected, correctly, that Caroline was complaining about him once again. It seemed to the Englishman that this was her favorite pastime.  
  
Andre winced as the physician's knife cut into his arm. He remembered a time when this had actually hurt. Now it was nothing more than a slight unpleasantness followed by the warmth of his own blood against his skin. Nothing hurt anymore, or hurt bad enough to overcome the persistent ache in his head and heart.  
  
"Monsieur Andre?"  
  
Andre turned his gaze away from the window and fixed his now dull eyes on the doctor from Paris. Monsieur Beneveaux had once been one of the most respected and sought after doctors in Paris, that had changed after a large number of his patients died regardless of his attentions. Beneveaux had accepted this as fate. Despite the nearly non-existent demand for his services, he remained willing to provide his services where needed for a very reasonable price. This was precisely what had attracted the attentions of Caroline.  
  
"What is it, Beneveaux?" the former officer inquired.  
  
Beneveaux sighed. "Monsieur Andre, I have been practically your personal physician for the past year."  
  
"Indeed. So, that is how long I have been condemned to live in this insufferable house," Andre remarked off-handedly, turning his attention back to the scene unfolding on the lawn below.  
  
"And, in that time, I must say that I could not help but notice several things concerning your condition." Beneveaux paused to give his patient an opportunity to inquire into the nature of the observations. Andre said nothing, so the doctor simply continued. "The main conclusion I have drawn, sir," the doctor said cautiously, "is that there is nothing physically wrong with you."  
  
At this, a spark of anger flashed across Andre's eyes, which fixed themselves again on Beneveaux.  
  
"What do you mean by that?" Andre snapped. "I am a very sick man. Anyone, even those completely uneducated in medicine, could tell you that. Do you think I would have you come here from Paris with your leeches and your knives if I were not ill?"  
  
"I never said that you weren't ill," the doctor explained, wiping blood from the cut in Andre's arm and applying a new linen bandage, "only that there is nothing physically wrong with you. You are obviously very, very ill, Monsieur Andre. I believe it is your mind, however, and not your body, that ails you."  
  
"You think I'm mad?" Andre questioned, eyes narrowing. He thought Beneveaux himself must have gone mad for even suggesting such a thing.  
  
Finished with bandaging, the doctor took a seat in a nearby chair, one of the few pieces of furniture in the small, dusty room aside from the bed. The only thing of interest was the neglected portrait of a young woman hanging above a fireplace that contained some smoldering ashes.  
  
"Your mother?" Beneveaux asked, noticing the similarities of thick brown hair and bright, intelligent eyes between the portrait and the young man lying on the bed.  
  
"Attempting to change the subject?"  
  
"No sir," the doctor replied quickly. "And I do not think you are mad."  
  
Andre closed his eyes, the sunlight streaming through the window giving his eyelids a dark purple hue. "What do you think then?"  
  
"You once told me that you betrayed your country," the Frenchman said. "I know that you won't tell me the entire story, but I believe that you feel so much guilt over whatever you have done or believe that you have done that it is destroying you in much the same manner as consumption or any other such illness. You hate this house, you despise your aunts, and we French repulse you. By staying here, you simply intensify your own misery." Beneveaux pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "And, with all due respect, Monsieur Andre, I think you remain here for that very reason. There are bound be other reasons why you are unable to return to England, but you remain in this house because you believe you deserve this misery."  
  
Andre's eyes snapped open. "Get out!" he commanded. "Leave and do not come back. You are my physician. You only say such things to make up for your own lack of skill."  
  
Beneveaux sighed. "I suspected you would say something to that effect." He bowed low. "I will take my leave then, Monsieur Andre, for making you well again is beyond my skill as a physician. It's beyond anyone's skill, except your own will."  
  
Andre turned to face the window again, blocking Beneveaux from his view completely, denying and accepting everything he had been told all at the same time.  
  
"I hope you will accept this as something of a parting gift," the doctor said, placing a small package on the table next to the bed.  
  
There was the sound of footsteps, a door closed, and Beneveaux was gone. Andre stared at the window for quite some time longer, unable to see anything beyond the glass. For the first time since the night after he awoke dreadfully ill and still in the company of colonials, the former British officer felt hot tears stinging his eyes. Andre cursed his own weakness, remembering his perfectly disciplined self that had been so well known to Sir Henry Clinton. Somehow, Major John Andre seemed like a completely different person altogether, someone very different from John Andre, the traitor, the helpless bedridden invalid condemned to a barely tolerable existence in the home of his mother's foul sisters.  
  
"Beneveaux understands nothing," Andre reassured himself, pieced his shattered delusion together once more. "I misjudged the amount of poison. Instead of allowing me to escape from certain death, it condemned me to a worse fate."  
  
He remembered nothing, only waking still surrounded by the enemy, and being told of the dozens of British military secrets he had divulged in his delirium. Thus had John Andre betrayed the British Empire, and thus he had been betrayed by his own weakness.  
  
Needing a distracting from such reflections, Andre turned his attention to the package. He could tell without removing the paper wrapper that it was a book of some sort. Tearing off the paper, he was unimpressed by the seemingly commonplace volume bound in red leather. It was only upon noticing the title stamped into the leather that the great intelligence officer received one of the first true surprises of his life.  
  
"Winsome Wanderings: The Poetry and Other Assorted Works of John Andre"  
  
Caroline Giradot was unaware that any such book had ever been published, and assuming she had known it is quite unlikely that she would have cared at all. Caroline had never been the sort to care much for any other poetry besides the natural poetry of efficiency. Holding one of the few remaining chickens in one hand and her favorite cleaver in the other, having finished with the washing she set about in the grim task of preparing supper.  
  
Despite what might be suggested by her demeanor, Caroline disliked the bloody task of beheading. The chicken squawked in protest as she put its neck to the block.  
  
"Quiet, Stella," Caroline cooed. "There, there, don't make this any more difficult."  
  
She raised the cleaver.  
  
"Madame Giradot?"  
  
The voice of Doctor Beneveaux gave Caroline such a start that she loosened her grip just enough to allow Stella a narrow escape. With another squawk of defiance, Stella hurried to rejoin her fellow chickens.  
  
"Do pardon me, Madame," the doctor said, fumbling the words a bit. "I did not mean to interrupt."  
  
"Think nothing of it," Caroline snapped. "Actually, I am not in the mood for chicken this evening. Stella could use a bit more fattening up anyway."  
  
Caroline managed a smile that bordered on genuine. She thought it best to be civil with Beneveaux lest he decided to start charging more.  
  
"What is it you want?"  
  
"I am leaving, Madame. My services are no longer needed here."  
  
The eldest Giradot sister's smile widened. "And why is that, my dear doctor?"  
  
"My services are no longer needed here," Beneveaux explained. "You may send what I am owed to my Paris address. You will have no difficulty in doing so, I assume?"  
  
"Oh, of course not!" Caroline answered. "No difficulty at all. Thank you, doctor."  
  
"And I thank you, Madame Giradot." With yet another bow, the doctor turned and walked away from the dilapidated Giradot house for the last time.  
  
As she walked toward the kitchen, Caroline found herself feeling slightly guilty now that she truly was unable to remove the smile from her face. There was something that seemed inherently wrong in finding joy where most would find sorrow. It was one thing to speak of finding such joy, it was quite another to actually experience it.  
  
What the doctor had said could only mean one thing.  
  
"He is British," Caroline reminded herself. "They are dogs. This is for the best. Do not waste your time on guilt."  
  
She thought of the tune Elisabeth had been whistling earlier and tried, unsuccessfully, to take it up herself. 


End file.
